


Words like Chess Pieces

by spicedrobot



Series: Ko-fi Strawpoll Compilation [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Baihu Genji Shimada, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Human Zenyatta, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oni Genji Shimada, Oral Sex, Sanzang Zenyatta, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16626860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: Two gods, one good, one evil, vie for the same monk.





	Words like Chess Pieces

****Hewn from scaled iron and turquoise flame, he is godlike among the stone and peaks of the monastery. A throne would suit him, a battlefield moreso. He speaks little, so the rumors speak for him: an exiled prince from a distant land. Zenyatta offers himself as escort, smiling ruefully at the starstruck faces of his younger brother and sisters. A visitor, same as any. Yet, the god-prince, known only as Baihu, does not leave.

He spends his days quietly among the shambali learning all he can. Baihu wakes before the last stars fade to perform the day’s chores, runs errands in the village with the other monks, lets the children hang off his arms as they scream with delight. Slowly the armor gives way to long-sleeved robes, severely bound, wrappings that cover all but his eyes.

In this way, between humble sparring and common deeds, the monks warm to Baihu. The crinkle of his eyes is as bright as a smile.

A smile Zenyatta has never seen.

* * *

He hopes...he does not know what he hopes.

There is no one closer to Baihu than his master. They spend long nights together, talking philosophy, dreams, meditating in the wind-swept chill of the open balconies until Zenyatta blues from the cold.

Baihu does not remove his wrappings, and Zenyatta does not ask.

Perhaps the distance is proper. Certainly it is.

A master. _His_ master. Zenyatta has felt this before, passing inclinations that dissolve like sugar on his tongue.

So when he looks up, be it dawn, midday or night, and Baihu is already turned to him, he swallows the sensation tightening his chest.

Sweet. Soon to fade.

* * *

It does not fade.

* * *

Zenyatta supposes he is to blame for luring darkness among them, but he has never felt his feelings evil.

Yet they _must_ be for what they summon.

The distant hum of nightly prayer has long since quieted, and Zenyatta pens the final words of a manuscript in the light of a low-burned candle.

“I have traveled long and far to find myself, and I have found it in you.”

Ink splatters the paper beneath his brush.

An echo of his student’s words. Baihu had said the same hours ago with admiration in his eyes. Nothing more.

“Who are you?”

The same height, the same cut of shoulders. Armored. Masked, though this one draws his to the side, revealing high cheekbones, a cut jaw, scars slicing brow and lip and nose. His eyes are not red like his mask, and Zenyatta’s heart skips at the familiar flint hue.

“I am your longing made flesh.”

Zenyatta stares, then frowns severely as the man laughs. Even that chills him, how similar they sound. He cannot look away from his face and its glee, imagining it on another.

“Genji,” an oni, he _must_ be, offers. He steps closer, but Zenyatta does not hear his footfalls.

“Why are you here?”

He freezes beneath the sudden seriousness of the demon’s face, the way his eyes linger at the open column of his throat, unprotected by a single, loose robe.

“I have traveled long and far to find myself,” Genji says, low.

The room is too small. He is too close. The oni grips Zenyatta’s chin, tilting his face, drawing his thumb along his lower lip.

His words roll over Zenyatta’s frozen, half-parted mouth.

“And I have found it in you.”

* * *

Zenyatta wakes with the sun’s light against his eyelids. He carefully arranges his robes to rest properly around his neck, fixes the mess of his bedroll into recognizable order. He does not think of tender aches. He does not think of the sounds. The sounds, the sense-memory blooming where skin meets cloth, deeper, _inside_ him, sickly hot, groped and claimed and begging for his own undoing.

He does not think of it.

* * *

_I have traveled long and far to find myself, and I have found it in you._

Zenyatta had smiled.

It is not a rare thing to see joy upon his master’s face; he found happiness in many things, small and simple, grand and abstract. Somehow, though, it is not what Baihu had wanted.

It was an easy thing, confessing in youth. Those memories feel like dreams when he stands next to his master, warm and cherished, even among endless snow-tipped peaks.

Zenyatta had smiled and thanked him.

His master had misunderstood. It is the easy conclusion, sweetness to ease Baihu’s mind. The other conclusion, with edges raw and blackened, he pushes firmly away.

* * *

_I have traveled long and far to find myself, and I have found it in you._

The monk had spread his legs easily enough.

Genji thrills at the power in it, thriving in the endless cycle of hunger and satiation that is his world. The monk is sweet, desperate, charming in the way all unsoiled things are, like bloodying white linen or watching the light fade from someone’s eyes. There is pleasure in destruction, and that is not new.

Genji lingers. He watches. Trails the monk in the shadows of stone and tree, listens to the monk’s words, for how better to lie and control than to know another’s thoughts?

It works especially well with this one. He submits with a few whispered words and eager hands; once or twice only a silent, unmasked look had the monk slipping from his robes.

Somewhere between the nights bedding and the days watching, words had become thoughts. More than lies. More than weapons.

What had he been, before this?

The bites Genji leaves are pretty. Then they are a necessity.

* * *

Baihu does not confess again, and life continues as it had before.

They eat together, train together, study the stars and walk the paths from sanctum to village, a knowable, comfortable routine.

It is this closeness that undoes Baihu with horrifying fury.

Turned away, Zenyatta does not notice him at first. His back is smooth and freckled, unmarred until the slope of his shoulders. A tapestry of colors bloom along his nape and just beneath: sickly yellow and reds, fresh, deep purple, all laid in round indentation with even teeth, vivid against dusky skin.

Then they are gone, like the retreat of a nightmare, as Zenyatta eases his robes into place.

“Ah, Baihu,” Zenyatta smiles as he turns. “Is something wrong?”

His master did not know, not about the marks or about him.

“No. I am at peace.”

The lie rolls off his tongue, easy in his shock.

* * *

He is not shambali, and there is no rule against it. Still, as Baihu tugs down his wrappings to drink what reminds him of sake, he cannot shake the shame from his mind. He takes a few more pulls until he can.

Baihu leaves his room. He passes no one, a small mercy as he begins to unwrap his face. The air chills his skin sets his scars tingling. He exhales, the warmth of raksi on his tongue, and doesn’t let himself hesitate at the door.

A mistake.

He sees himself. Or something like him. Not battle armor, but assassin’s. An oni’s mask drawn to one side, grinning with ghoulish malice. An aura like his own, not quite human.

With his face, Baihu’s face, lust-drunk and wild, the oni bites along his master’s throat. Zenyatta’s wrist are pinned next to his ears, fists clenched, gasps, shocked and lost, spilling from his lips.

Baihu moves.

The look of shock on the oni’s face startles and satisfies. They roll to the floor, and Baihu pins him, at least momentarily. Hellfire burns in the oni’s eyes, red to his blue, and it unhinges something in his mind.

“Ah, my prince. We finally meet.”

The way he _grins_. Baihu smashes his forearm against the oni’s throat, but it does nothing to that expression.

“The kitten raises its hackles. Very cute.”

A growl rumbles in his chest, long and low and angry.

“Please, release him.”

“Master—”

“I was not in danger.”

The words spill in a rush, harsh from Zenyatta’s shallow breathing.

“He…” Coldness sinks into Baihu’s spine. “I…”

Helpless like a boy. He closes his eyes to steady himself.

“He looks like me.”

Baihu stares at the oni, the grin replaced with a seriousness that’s nearly as mocking.

“He does,” Zenyatta says.

It hangs in the air like a death sentence.

“You are a fool,” murmurs the oni.

“What was that?”

His voice breaks like ice, a fury in its wake.

“Genji—”

“A fool. A coward. He fell into my arms, sick for you.” The oni’s eyes burn into his own. “Had you just spread your legs, he would not have suffered as he did.”

The heat flooding Baihu’s face barely registers as he gapes, grip slackening.

“ _Genji_.”

The oni’s eyes narrow, that snide twist of lip sharp and predatory.

“I will not give him up so easily now, kitten prince.” The oni grips his forearm still rested on his throat, squeezing hard enough to ache. “I will not make him suffer as you do.”

Fingertips brush over his jaw, tracing the raised edges of his scars. Baihu cannot help but flinch.

“I will allow a taste of what he longs for, if only so he may find it lacking.”

* * *

Baihu cannot believe he stays. He cannot believe Zenyatta allows it, that he listens to the creature who watches him from over his master’s marred shoulder. It burns him, a smoldering coal of anger in his guts, tempered only by the long, gentle fingers cupping the sides of his face.

There is no hesitation. No pity. Zenyatta uncovers every inch of him as sweetly as a disciple to their god, with reverence Baihu has never known. It awes him, eases embarrassment and shame until they are but whispers. The lips pressed to his chest strip him bare; Zenyatta kisses down his middle, tongue dipping along his muscles, finding his scars.

Baihu’s cock has long since grown hard, throbbing against sweaty skin. His fingers fist in the sheets of the bedroll, afraid to touch, afraid to move. The oni grins between peppering kisses beneath Zenyatta’s ear and sucking marks into his favorite swath of skin, claiming as he has been for far too long.

A hand slipping between Baihu’s robes snaps his attention to his master, his hand—so close, he—Baihu claps a hand over his mouth to catch his moan, staring down as Zenyatta draws out his cock. His master exhales, breath warm along his hip. He watches Baihu as he strokes him once, tip to base, squeezing gently around the soft skin where his knot would form.

“M-master—”

Zenyatta leans forward, tongue sliding along his cockhead, Baihu pulled taut and gasping as he draws it into his mouth. His master’s eyes narrow, the red lines of his paint striking. The oni gropes his master’s chest, twisting his nipples, tugging them until they swell and Zenyatta whines around the cock in his mouth.

“Stop that.”

“He enjoys it,” the oni says with casual venom.

His master swallows and sinks down, the soft tip of his nose nudging Baihu’s skin, mouth settling snug against his body.

“I taught him this.” Genji’s eyes gleam. “Go ahead. Hold him down and fuck his throat. It is his favorite.”

Baihu growls and ignores him. His master’s cheeks splotch and darken, and Zenyatta retreats for only a few gasped breaths before he swallows Baihu down and holds, rocking his mouth softly. His gaze flickers up his student’s body, and they stare at each other, Baihu inhaling the sudden swears threatening to form.

He hesitantly rests a shaky hand on his master’s head. Zenyatta moans, his tongue dragging along the underside of his cock as he flushes all the darker. Baihu squirms, taking all his restraint not to rock into him and test the oni’s words. He will not have Zenyatta as this monster has had him.

“See?” The oni murmurs.

“Shut up.”

He wants to kill him and be done with it, even as he watches Genji petting down Zenyatta’s arched back, further than he can see. Zenyatta’s throat constricts, the sounds peeling from his master high and hard and muffled. Baihu’s grip on his head tightens dangerously, fingers catching along the textured buzz.

“M-master...I…”

Zenyatta looks at him but doesn’t seem to see, his hand, planted at Baihu’s hip, sliding inward. He swears as his master presses something just behind his balls, feels them draw up, nearly painful. Zenyatta’s other hand grasps the base of his dick as he draws off it, lapping beneath his glans, disturbed only when the oni works little moans and broken Nepalese out of the man between them.

“I…” Baihu groans.

Genji does _something_ , and Zenyatta clutches Baihu’s cock just one side of painful, sealing his lips around it and sucking, pumping, quick and loud and obscene. Baihu throws an arm over his eyes and shoves Zenyatta’s head down, forcing into the aching warmth of his throat, stupid, mean, but he’s...he’s coming in his master’s mouth, past it, worse, better, more, his knot swelling in his tight grip, too tight, then perfect, _perfectperfect_ —

Everything fades back in pieces.

Zenyatta’s labored breathing shivering over his spent cock. Slickened fingers slipping into Baihu’s ass, a deep, delicious ache settling as he’s worked open. The even, rough slapping of skin, Zenyatta’s fingers going clumsy when the oni hitches his master’s hips up and lays into him as Baihu blearily watches.

“G-genji, wait, please…”

Baihu bristles, expecting a struggle, expecting to intercede.

The oni _obeys_ , not pulling out but enough to let his master shift. Zenyatta’s fingers graze Baihu’s prostate, purposeful and teasing. He has done this before, Baihu dimly realizes. How had he learned? The oni? One of the monks? Within the village, disguised and warm with drink?

Genji draws back slowly, finally on his knees, enough space that Zenyatta kneels too, his swollen nipples, his cock, hanging pearled and heavy, a delirious sight.

His master doesn’t have to say a word. Baihu shifts down on the bedroll, led by Zenyatta’s hands on his thighs, until his lower body lies flush to Zenyatta’s cock. Trapped between the bedroll and those dark eyes that never leave his, heated, wanting.

“Heh. A _neko_ , I was right.”

“I recall someone who laid quite happily beneath me two nights ago,” Zenyatta huffs.

“Only for you.” Genji purrs into his master’s ear.

Zenyatta shifts back, dragging against the oni, those red-ringed eyes blackening.

“And if I wished to see you surrender to another?”

The oni does not hesitate.

“Anything you wish.”

“Hm.” And beneath his flushed, sweat-slick brow, Zenyatta smiles, secret and mischievous, at his student.

Zenyatta finds Baihu’s hand, interlaces their fingers as he bears down, watching him, watching him always, drinking in Baihu’s face twisting, each twitch of expression, how his eyelids flutter as he sinks inside.

Zenyatta shifts suddenly, both he and Baihu gasping as Genji laughs and shoves again. Pumping his hips to move Zenyatta’s much too soon.

“Do not be a brute.”

Genji eases his motions, but barely, setting a pace that has Baihu’s eyes cross and hand squeezing Zenyatta’s in a brutal grip. 

“But you prefer it.”

The pace of it is strange, teasing, stilted at Genji’s whim. Zenyatta takes it in stride; Baihu cannot see past him as his pleasure builds, the warm, deep amber of his gaze trapping him as much as his body being claimed.

His master never lets go of Baihu’s hand, but his other returns to his knot, fat and still needy, and squeezes, as rhythmically as he can led by another’s thrusts. Trapped between them, taken and taking, Zenyatta still watches, cares, works his body with painstaking tenderness.

Baihu whispers Zenyatta’s name. Again and again, punctuated by shocked, building moans, only halted by Zenyatta’s mouth flattening to his own, opening him up, claiming with hot, eager tongue, filling him with his whimpers. Chest to chest, sweating and groaning and sliding, kissing until their vision swims, until Genji _tsks_ above them, a sharp, unhappy sound, and his thrusts quicken, brutal and mean, shaking them of their revery.

“I am still here. I will not…” Zenyatta bites Baihu’s throat, warbling into the flesh at his teeth. “Be forgotten.”

It is too much, even for Genji, shoving, growling, control bleeding away. Baihu cannot breathe, smothered by the harsh, frenzied motions of the other, Zenyatta locked hot and tight within him, trembling and trapped. The hand on Baihu’s knot keeps him lust-drunk and mindless, Zenyatta whining into his skin, marking him, delicious bites he hopes burn above his collar, line his neck forever, owned completely.

Bites that will stand out just as prettily as Zenyatta’s.

* * *

Baihu wakes in the light of dawn. His heart thunders in his chest; he is late. Zenyatta will not scold him, but surely there will be teasing, monks to apologize to for missing his morning chores.

He can’t sit up, his arm deadened with pins and needles. Tender in more than one place. Sticky.

It must be a dream. Zenyatta’s sleeping face, inches from his, cheek squashed into his shoulder. He’s snoring, quiet but audible.

“This is the best part.” A voice, so much like his own, says.

Baihu blinks, taking in the oni wedged against Zenyatta’s other side, the three of them much too small for the bedroll.

“Well, the second best.” That firebrand grin ignites Baihu’s nerves.

Baihu sighs with a slow, measured breath, centering himself.

Better to learn how to resist all of the oni’s numerous barbs, especially if he wanted to keep waking up like this.

And Baihu does, more than anything.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Neko_ means cat in Japanese, but it's also slang for the man who bottoms in a gay relationship, which is why Oni mentions to to Baihu. :')


End file.
